The Cloak
by ClaimToFame
Summary: Following Sansa Stark's brutal humiliation at the hands of Ser Meryn Trant and King Joffrey, Sandor "The Hound" Clegane finds his loyalty shifting.
1. Chapter 1

Whenever some witless cunt asked Sandor Clegane what it was he thought about all day as he stood in attendance of the King, his reply was usually an unwavering cold stare and complete indifference. But for whatever reason, one particular morning when the king's imp uncle, Lord Tyrion Lannister, inquired along those same lines, the Hound answered, "Killing people."

In response, the dwarf didn't even look up from the book he was studying, but a smile stretched across his ugly face. "Charming." He turned a page and his beady, mismatched eyes continued scanning the words scrawled there. "Anyone in particular?"

"Meryn fucking Trant, lately," said Sandor as he widened his stance slightly and brought both hands to rest on the hilt of the sword at his hip.

The dwarf laughed aloud at that and looked up from his reading. "Admirable choice." He considered Sandor for a moment, as if glimpsing something of value in him for the first time, and then returned his gaze to his book. "Any particular reason that Ser Meryn is the lucky target of your stoic rage of late?"

The question was dangerous, and the Hound scoffed at the imp's assumption that he was so stupid. He held his tongue, refusing to take the bait.

Undaunted, the clever little Lannister pressed further. "What happened yesterday was," he looked up from his book at nothing in particular, searching, "unacceptable."

Sandor snuffed. _Unacceptable?_ He ground his teeth at the memory of watching the abhorrent little twat they'd crowned king, and that spineless Meryn Trant torture and humiliate the Stark girl. Since that moment, his mind had been consumed with thoughts of killing them both, though he surely couldn't name Joffrey, even though he felt certain the imp had little love for his nephew. Though a Lannister, and at times a bloody pain in the arse, there was no question that the dwarf was the most tolerable of the damn golden lions. What he lacked in stature he made up for in a sharp mind and a decent moral compass. It was a combination rarely found in King's Landing, much less in a Lannister.

The imp was still talking. "I fear Sansa Stark has a long and miserable life in front of her." He closed the thick volume he'd been studying and scooted out of his chair, dragging the book off of the desk with him and waddling to replace it on a shelf. "But," he continued, "why should she be any different from the rest of us, eh?" The book returned to its rightful slot, he turned and flashed a sympathetic smile at Sandor.

Much later, in the hollow, silent hours of blackness preceding dawn, Sandor found himself wide awake, and irritated. The images of the Stark girl would not leave his brain: dress torn half off, knocked to her knees before the Iron Throne, trying to be brave and obedient through painful tears. And every time it resurfaced fresh and crisp, his pulse pounded and he felt rage course through his tight veins. He cursed himself for being so preoccupied. What did he care how Joffrey treated his toy? He knew why of course, and that was a scar he willed himself to leave well enough alone. There was something else, though. Just before the imp had arrived with that prick of a sellsword at his heels, Sandor had been on the verge of stopping Meryn Trant himself. What would've come from such insolence, he could not have guessed, but he had imagined everything from stunned acquiescence to the little twat king calling for his ugly head. In the end, he'd decided it didn't matter. He'd stood by long enough and witnessed the boy pick the wings from enough helpless flies, and even a dog has his limits. But as luck would have it, the imp had impeccable timing, and all Sandor could offer was his white cloak to help cover the girl.

His cloak. A slightly fresher memory pushed its way into his head. The morning after, when he'd arrived on duty, the absence of the cloak, traditional garb for a member of the kingsguard, had not gone unnoticed. The king made no attempt to hide his displeasure, knowing full well the reason Sandor was not properly turned out. "You _will_ have it on tomorrow, dog," he'd snarled.

"Fucking hell." He sat up and swung his heavy legs over the side of his cot. His head throbbed and he closed his eyes for a few moments hoping that the room would no longer be spinning when he reopened them. He'd been drinking himself to sleep for plenty of years now, a habit that had rewarded him with the certainty of miserable mornings. But at least when hung-over he had an excuse for the misery.

After a few moments of scratching his pounding head, he got up and staggered about his quarters dressing and arming himself appropriately, and then set out into the night in the direction of the highest tower of Maegor's Holdfast. Sansa Stark, like everyone else, was no doubt fast asleep in her chambers atop the tower, but daybreak was not so far off, and Sandor meant to meet it with his cloak once again in place. He was in no mood to hear the king's screeching insults and threats, and moreover, feared he might reach a breaking point if the little cunt pushed his luck. Ugly as his head was, and miserable as his life may be, he had no intention of losing either due to a fucking cloak.

By the time he'd climbed the winding staircase and reached the door to the girl's chambers, he was winded, wobbly, and nearly blinded by the splitting ache in his head. He paused in the corridor, leaning heavily against the cool stone wall, and caught his breath. A moment of clarity sent a jolt of uneasiness through him as he realized that he was about to do something very foolish. It was no secret the pretty eldest daughter of the late Eddard Stark had come of age, and even he had noticed the girl's undeniable blossoming beauty. And here he was, hung-over in the wee hours of the morning, preparing to intrude on the high-born maid's bedchamber. Sandor was not one for taking stupid risks, but whether it was the lingering effects of too much wine, a pathetic sense of duty to his horrible master, or the memory of the girl's smooth, ivory shoulders when he'd dropped his heavy cloak around them, something compelled him to raise a heavy fist and knock. _Wake up, little bird._


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa jolted from her fitful sleep. With her heart hammering in her chest, she lay still staring into the pitch darkness. _What had awoken her? Had it been a dream?_ She could not recall any details, but she knew she'd been dreaming. Her bedding, twisted and askew, was clinging to her, and her body was covered with a fine film of sweat. It was stifling hot in her bedchamber, and she tossed the covers aside, anxious for some air.

A knock at her door froze her in place.

So, it hadn't been the dream that had startled her awake after all. Frantically her mind raced through a list of possible people who might call on her at such an unheard of hour. Then, more important than the people themselves, she began to imagine reasons they could have come. One thought stood out in her mind most of all: Robb. He'd been killed, and they were coming to inform her. Or if it was Joffrey on the other side of the door, to gloat. _Joffrey wouldn't knock_, she reassured herself, and she realized there were not many who actually would knock instead of barging straight in. Lord Tyrion, perhaps, but why would he be visiting her in the middle of the night? If Robb were dead, she knew without question that Joffrey would deliver the news himself.

The knock came again, this time louder, more impatient.

Carefully, Sansa crawled from her bed and tip-toed across the dark room to the door. She pressed an ear against the solid wood and listened. "Who is it?" she squeaked.

"Little bird?" said the gruff voice on the other side.

_The Hound?_ Sansa instinctively stepped back and looked down at her thin nightshift. "Just a moment," she said to the door. She felt her way around her room, rifling through garments and bedding in an attempt to find her robe, but it was all in vain.

A heavy knock thudded twice more. "Little…bird?"

The Hound sounded tired, or drunk, or maybe both, a realization that only served to set Sansa's nerves more on edge. She crept back to the door and eased it open just enough so she could peek out and see her visitor. "What are you doing here?"

Sandor Clegane never looked particularly well, but even Sansa could recognize that he was in bad shape. The unscarred side of his face was as pale as milk, and the edges of his stringy hair were soaked in sweat. He squinted at her through pinched eyes, and was supporting himself with one massive hand on the doorframe. "Please," he panted. "I need…I need…"

Sansa never learned what he needed, because at that moment, the Hound retched and a stream of vomit spewed from his mouth, splattering the door, the floor, and just missing Sansa's bare toes. "Oh!" she squealed and hopped back, allowing the door to swing wide open. She looked first at the Hound, who was wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and then at the disgusting, chunky pool of bile between them.

"Seven _fucking_ hells!" The Hound looked up and met Sansa's bewildered stare. "Did I get any on you?"

"N-no," Sansa shook her head. The pungent smell was wafting up from the hot pool of sickness and she felt the back of her throat clench as her face went slack. Afraid she'd add to the mixture on the floor, she turned and retreated into her room as far away from it as she could manage.

The Hound took one giant step over his vomit and joined Sansa within. At once, the room seemed to shrink. "Got anything I can clean it up with?" he asked, scanning the room.

Sansa slumped onto the edge of her bed, unable to completely process this bizarre intrusion, and muttered, "I…I…uh…I…" as she looked around too.

"This'll do," said the Hound, swiping the generous square of white linen from the edge of the empty tub in the corner of the room. He clomped back over to the threshold and with a bit of grunting and wheezing, managed to stoop down and wipe up the mess he'd made. He wadded up the soiled linen and tossed it unceremoniously into the corridor promising he'd see it cleaned and returned later.

Sansa shook her head in disbelief and found her voice. "Forgive me, _why_ are you here?"

The Hound stood in the middle of the room, filling it to capacity with his towering height and considerable breadth, and looked as if he couldn't quite remember what had brought him there. Then, the dimness faded from his ravaged face. "The cloak," he said. "Where is it? I need it back."

Sansa felt her scalp jump and a shiver shoot up her spine. She cleared her throat. "The cloak?"

"Aye, the cloak," the Hound echoed, an edge of annoyance grating in his voice. "The one I put on you. I need it back."

Sansa could feel the heat rising in her cheeks and was grateful for the dimness of the room so the Hound couldn't see. "You need it back _now_?"

Patience fled the Hound. "Of course I need it back _now_. Why do you think I'm here you daft girl?"

"Why _now_?"

Because it's _mine_!" the Hound roared. "And your _beloved Joffrey_ is fit to throw a fucking tantrum if I don't have it when I report in a few hours."

She hated when he called Joff that. He did it just to mock her, she knew, just to twist the knife a bit more. To think, after the horror of the other day and the Hound's generous gesture of offering her his cloak, she'd begun to think perhaps he wasn't like the rest of them. What a fool she'd been. His cruelty may not be as public as Joffrey's or Ser Meryn's, but it was cruelty just the same.

Without a word, Sansa leaned across her bed and reached up under her pillow. She felt the cloak, folded neatly, and humiliation flooded her from the inside out as she pulled it from its intimate hiding place. _Gods, what must he be thinking?_ She almost expected to hear his cruel laughter fill the room when he realized how the silly little bird had cherished the garment as if it meant something special. But when she stood up with it in her hands and forced herself to look him in the face, she saw that he was staring at her slack-jawed.

"Here," she said, extending it to him. He hesitated, looking at the cloak as if it might bite should he reach out and take it. But at last he did take it, and Sansa quickly turned her back on him and stared out of her window into the darkness. "Thank you, Hound," she said dismissively.

Not another word was spoken, and the Hound's heavy footsteps trailed from the room, paused in the corridor, and then made their way down the staircase until Sansa could hear them no more. Tears were trailing down her cheeks when she pushed her door shut and crawled back into bed. She lay awake, watching the room brighten by degrees as dawn broke over King's Landing. The tears didn't stop until the sunlight shone bright through her window.


End file.
